


Spills

by LoverCrowley (ShadowScale)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 06:24:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19806532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowScale/pseuds/LoverCrowley
Summary: Crowley has a close call.Aziraphale realizes the demon isn't as confident as he seems.





	Spills

“I’m only saying you could do more good,” Aziraphale says, getting agitated that Crowley wasn’t seeing his point. 

The several bottles of wine they had gone through were not helping either of their moods. What had started as a simple comment about Crowley not stopping to help a pedestrian carrying an awful lot of bags had devolved into a full argument.

“I’m a _demon_ , I’m not _good_ ,” Crowley replies, rolling his eyes and feeling equally upset if not more so.

“Yes, and I’m an angel, but those labels hardly matter anymore, do they?”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Of course it does, neither of us exactly follow orders or fill out reports anymore, do we?”

“I meant it doesn’t matter if you’re an angel, because I’m not asking you to do more bad. I’m not asking you to change anything.”

“I just think you could be better!”

“So you’re saying I’m not good enough?” Crowley snaps.

“Exactly!” It takes Aziraphale half a second to realize what he had said. “No- no, Crowley. You know that’s not what I was getting at.” He softens, wishing he could take back the words, or better yet rewind time and stop himself from starting the argument in the first place.

“Right. No, yeah I get it. I’m not good enough. But I already knew that, Aziraphale. I’m well aware that I’m not, and I never will be. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m a demon or just because of me, but I know I’m not enough.” Crowley goes to take a drink from his glass, realizes its empty. He glances at the assortment of bottles cluttering the table and realizes they are all empty too.

“I’m getting another drink.” The demon stalks off to the storeroom, empty glass in hand.

“Wait a minute, Cr-”Aziraphale rises to follow, bumps into the table and knocks a few bottles to the floor with a clatter. He takes a moment to set them all upright and sober up before heading for the storeroom himself.

It feels as though time slows down when he gets there. Crowley stands, leaning against a set of shelves. His glass is filled generously with a deep red. Aziraphale’s eyes flick to the now open bottle just beside him, take in the scrawling, handwritten label, so faded it’s unreadable. Still, he knows exactly what it says.

“NO!”

Aziraphale practically flies across the room knocking the glass from Crowley’s hand just as it’s halfway to his lips. It hits the floor with a sharp crash.

“What the hell was that for?” Crowley barks, indignant. “I’m not good enough to drink your wine now?”

“Did you drink it?!” Aziraphale drags him away from the splattered liquid, throws him into the opposite wall with a strength that reminds Crowley that yes, despite his gentle exterior Aziraphale is indeed a warrior, one meant to lead an army even.

Crowley has a biting remark readied on his tongue, but he swallows it, and his anger gives way to confusion when he feels the panic pouring off the angel. The wide eyes, the quick, shallow breaths, the hands fisted in his shirt front.

“Did you drink it, Crowley?!” Aziraphale screams, shaking him.

“No! No, you slapped it out of my hand before I could!”

“You’re sure?” Aziraphale’s grip loosens, but he’s still tense, his voice is still raised. 

“Yes. I’m drunk, not an idiot. I’d know if I’d gotten a sip or not.” He realizes Aziraphale is shaking.

The angel presses his face against Crowley’s chest, and Crowley can barely understand what he’s saying, words muffled against his shirt.

“What?” 

“You’re right. You would know if you’d had a sip. You would- oh.” His voice cracks.

Crowley can feel the front of his shirt quickly becoming soaked. Aziraphale is crying. _Why is he crying? It’s just wine. Maybe it was a gift he was saving. But to cry over?_

“I would… what, Aziraphale?” 

The angel slides his hands down to wrap around his waist, plasters himself against Crowley so they are pressed together from chest to hips.

“That was _communion wine_.”

Oh. Oh. Oh no. It wouldn’t have had the same effect as holy water, but it was blessed and swallowing even one sip would have been enough to… enough to…

Crowley sobers up. “I didn’t know. I thought it was just wine. I didn’t even look.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I was sure I’d gotten rid of all of it when you started hanging around here more. Oh Crowley.” His name comes out as a whine, a plead, a prayer. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I’d never forgive myself if-”

“Shhhhh.” Crowley pets one hand through Aziraphale’s hair. “Don’t think about it. I’m here, I’m fine.”

“But if you had-”

“Shhhhh. I didn’t. I’m fine. You saved me, didn’t you? You saved me, and I’m fine.”

He doesn’t even quite register doing it, but Crowley sinks down to sit on the floor, Aziraphale still cradled against his chest, trembling. He stares across the floor at the broken glass, the dark puddle. He could imagine it was blood instead of wine.

_Communion wine. So it is blood, in a sense._

They sit there for a long time. Aziraphale never so much as loosens his hold around Crowley’s middle until he calms down enough to say, “You should go back to the living room. I’ll clean this up.”

\---

Aziraphale returns to see Crowley sitting on the floor by the fireplace, knees pulled to his chest. He looks up at Aziraphale’s entrance. Az moves to sit by him, draping one arm over his shoulders. They watch the fire crackle for a time and then, “I’m sorry.”

“I already said, it’s not your fault. I’m the one who grabbed that bottle-”

“Not the wine. I’m sorry for what I said. Before. About you being enough.”

Crowley huffs, half starts to pull away, but Aziraphale holds him. Watches his eyes reflect the dancing of the flames.

“I...” Aziraphale sighs. “Do you really think that about yourself?” He asks softly. “Because you are more than enough, Crowley.”

“But I’m not.” Crowley says slowly. “And I don’t- I don’t understand why you’re wasting your time with me. Forgiving me, saving me.” He turns his head to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “Why do you bother?”

“Oh, my dear.” He runs his fingers through Crowley’s hair. “You’re the one saving me, all the time. Back in France, back in the church, back at the end of the world. It’s been you saving me. And as far as forgiveness, I hope that you’ll forgive me. For not making it more apparent how important you are to me, how wonderful I think you are, how much I love you.”

“Now that’s taking it too far. You don’t have to lie to me, angel.” He pulls himself in tighter, rests his chin on one knee.

“What did I say that’s untrue?”

“That you love me. Or rather that you made it sound like it’s any different than the love you have for everything else in this world.”

“Ah. I really do forget sometimes that we aren’t the same after all. That you don’t feel love the same way that…” Aziraphale gestures to the fireplace. “The same way we feel this heat. The way we can feel where it’s from, and how intense it is.”

Crowley considers this, glances at him sideways. “Then how much would I feel, if I could?”

“How much do I love you, you mean?” Aziraphale asks, amused. “More than anything else. As much as you love me.”

The corners of Crowley’s lips twitch into the smallest smile. “Are you sure? That’s an awful lot.”

“I’m sure, my dear. It’s very true.”

They spend the rest of the evening in front of the fire, pulling cushions down from the couch and laying back against them. Aziraphale resumes stroking his fingers through Crowley’s hair as he lays contentedly against the angel’s chest.

“You really are enough, Crowley. I wish I’d realized how you felt about yourself sooner.”

“Ngk,” he grunts.

“I don’t want you to change yourself, you’re good as you are.”

“Not good,” Crowley mumbles, only half awake, drawn towards sleep by the warmth of the fire and the closeness of the angel. “But… maybe enough.”

Maybe was a start, Aziraphale conceded. He would get there.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I'd love to hear your feedback :)
> 
> Also, you want to chat you can find me on [tumblr](http://www.lovercrowley.tumblr.com)


End file.
